A Little Spark can Warm a Long Winter
by phoebeliski
Summary: When Laura is forced to teach school for two years away from her betrothed, life is dismal. Until a certain green-eyed stranger crosses her path, and Laura's simple life gets...complicated. First chapter! backround so far, but hang in there


It had started sometime during winter, during the All-Day sings, where families were huddled like pigs in a blanket, snug under woolen homespun cloth. The church was drafty, the hymnbooks tattered, and the organ in desperate need of repair. However, every Sunday the whole town of Des Moines, Iowa, crowded into the cold Baptist church, to praise the Lord and catch up on their gossip. Some days it snowed, wind howling against the roof, and a fine layer of snow would collect on everyone's belongings (due to the slats in the walls that had never been fixed). In summer it was dreadfully hot, and they sweated (again like pigs) as they belted out Bible hymns. People drifted in and out of the church—they would eat and play outside, children making snowballs or mudpies, depending on the season. Then they would return at their own will to the singing. Only blizzard, illness, or childbirth were acceptable excuses for absences at the All-Day sings. Laura soon learned all this from the Churchills. Mr. Gregory Churchill was the head of the Des Moines school board, a dear friend of Pa's, the one who had taken a chance on Laura. Laura, fresh out of school with a teaching certificate almost wet from ink, was hired as a teacher in the one-room school house. She was terrified. Mr. Churchill did not do much to abate her nervousness. A tall, overbearing man, he gave Laura two blankets and a space on the floor in their basement. She was to do the dishes and sweep the house for her keep. Of course, Laura was planning on doing all that—Ma did raise her to be courteous, after all. But to hear those words from Mr. Churchill's lips arised a certain bitterness in her. But surely it was too early to be bitter. Laura brought one horse-hide carrying case, with all of her clothes and books, a braille set to write to Mary, and her wits. Lord, she would need her wits. It was a hard life, hers. Mrs. Churchill ruled her life, demanding she clean the house and do their chores. She blamed her rheumatism, her sore ankles, her arthritis. She sat with a Bible on a chair and watched Laura with her beady eyes, not missing a single swipe of a brush or broom. She was a large woman, flabby pink skin overflowing out of her fine linen dresses, her enormous body supported by two tiny feet. Her eyes, hard and penny pinching were obscured by the folds of pink skin, her hair wispy and thin against her enormous head. Laura's hands grew red and chapped as she scrubbed Ms. Churchill's floors with a rye brush, her arms aching from making her chutney. Then the children—three spoiled children of Mrs. Churchill's, who would rip at Laura's dresses, and when punished, would run to her mother. Mrs. Churchill would rise slowly out of her seat, her bulk overwhelming Laura, and demand to know why she was lying about her babies. School was difficult. The students were not inclined to learn, the school board not inclined to listen to woeful tales about broken heaters and frostbitten toes. But none of these were mentioned in her long letters to Ma. She was cheery and upbeat, and so was Ma. Neither knew the other was secretly breaking from heartache. At first there were shy glances, in which he (scandlously!) steadily held her eyes. She turned away, and would blush, singing with more vigour. When she sneaked another glance he would still be looking at her, and their eyes meeting brought a new kind of thrill into her grey, washed out existence at Des Moines. She lay awake in her basement, staring at the long rows of peppers above her, and wondered about him. Where was he from? Why was he staring at her? She was always happy to get letters from Alonzo—he was her betrothed, after all. But his letters were dull and full of farm work, nothing that she wanted to hear. She yearned to hear his voice saying that he missed her, the house echoed with the swish of her hoopskirts. But he did not. They were as stolid as strangers, nervous around each other. She wrote him long letters of longing and sorrow and anticipation: of joy of thinking of their little house, their life they would build. She burnt them, page by page, in the cellar, watching her words turn to ash. She wrote him of ancedotes at the school, of scholarly grammar and words such as "duty," "faithful," and "fine." Big, heavy words—thick words, wooden furniture that placed just so on the page. It was the first week of January when they spoke. She remembered clearly what she wore: her brocade dress from home, a storebought dress. It was beautiful—thick, dark wine red, with gold brocade adorning her neck. She felt joyful. Winter was halfway over—that meant the year was almost over! One more year, and she could return to the life she yearned to live. She returned to her pew after lunch, head down, with she felt a sharp pain in her foot. "Ow!" "Oh, miss, I'm dreadfully sorry!" a voice said, rich as bronze. He stood there, his eyes as playful green as ever, his dark hair curly under his wide-brimmed hat. "I am unacceptably clumsy." "Oh, tis nothing," Laura whispered, dropping her eyes. "Have I seen you before? Are you new to Des Moines?" "I am, sir. I teach at the schoolhouse, sir." He laughed. "Oh, please, do not call me sir, fair lady. It makes me sound as if I am your father. How long have you been here?" "A few months." "Well, I must introduce you to the finer points of our little village you may have overlooked. I am Devon Greer, by the by." "Pleased to meet you, Devon Greer," She said sweetly. "I am Laura Ingalls." "Ingalls, you say? I am a second cousin of Ingalls!" "Are you really?" she said, delighted. "Yes, my father was Taylor Greer, Mr. Ingalls' cousin." "That's fine," she said, her eyes glowing. "Now—" But the opening notes of "Jesus is our Lord" infiltrated her speech, and she sat down hurriedly. He gave a small wave and sat down in a different section, presumably with his family. Afterwards, they arranged to go for a drive. His horses were fine and spirited, matched bays that trotted high throughout Des Moines. They sat wrapped in heavy quilts in the buggy, breathing in the scents of the late evening air, the tranquility of Sunday night. Conversation was easy, and she felt comfortable to him, knowing he was her third cousin. 


End file.
